


Privacy in the Digital Age

by lunanimal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Frustrated!John, Insecure!Sherlock, M/M, Pining, Pre-Reichenbach, Wisteria Lodge but like way less racist, mind reading au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-07-08 01:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunanimal/pseuds/lunanimal
Summary: “It seems we’ve become the next of Baskerville’s unwilling test subjects,” Sherlock announced.“We?” John asked. “You’re not reading minds too, now, are you?”Just back from Baskerville, John discovers a strange new ability: he can hear Sherlock's thoughts. What he overhears will challenge the way he understands Sherlock- and their relationship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the mind-reading prompt goes to the lovely kissestaakoanddraco. Without her input and encouragement, this fic would not exist.

“JOHN!”  
  
John winced as he was jolted out of sleep. Sherlock’s voice seemed to boom.  
  
“Flinch? My volume isn’t excessive. No history of migraines. Possibly hungover…”  
  
John opened his eyes and saw Sherlock standing just beside his bed, sharply dressed and with impatience wrinkling his face. John had often fantasized about waking up to find Sherlock next to him- but not like this.  
  
Satisfied that John was awake, Sherlock turned on his heel and crossed the short distance to John’s chest of drawers.  
  
John sat up in bed and rubbed his hands over his face. Yesterday’s drive home from Dartmoor still sat heavy in his muscles. “You were with me all last night,” he said. “You know I didn’t have anything to drink.”  
  
Sherlock paused as he reached for the handles of a drawer. His back was to John, but he didn’t need to see Sherlock’s expression to recognize his tell of surprise. Sherlock reanimated after only a moment. He plucked out the first garment his hand landed on- briefs- then did the same for the next drawer, and the next, until he had tossed a complete outfit onto John’s bed. “Get dressed. Quickly. Client should be arriving any moment.”  
  
_“Good morning,”_ John said pointedly.  
  
“No time for useless pleasantries, John. A statement that holds true under such a variety of circumstances, and particularly today’s.”  
  
“But always time to debate the uselessness of pleasantries.”  
  
Sherlock looked down as he smirked. He pulled something up on his phone, then passed it to John.  
  
An email from Lestrade: _You might be interested: a man’s flat was burglarized in Notting Hill, and same man murdered same night in Fulham. Call you when we know more._  
  
John passed the phone back to Sherlock. “But you said we had a client.”  
  
“Within a half hour of receiving that email, I received another asking about confidentiality. The sender wants to know whether, _hypothetically,_ I could prove one’s innocence in one crime while protecting their guilt in another.”  
  
“So… you think they’re the burglar?”  
  
“Yes, and possibly the murderer as well, although that’s obviously not the narrative they intend to give us.”  
  
“What did you tell them?”  
  
“Oh, I told them email was perhaps not the best method of communication if they were concerned about confidentiality. They’ll be on their way. Once we have their story, we’ll be joining Lestrade at the site of the murder. So!” He tapped his fingers on the pile of John’s clothes.  
  
“Yes, alright…” John finally dragged himself up from the bed. He unfolded the jumper Sherlock had selected for him and paused. Sherlock hadn’t left; he was still hovering over his shoulder. “Well?” John asked.  
  
A quizzical expression.  
  
“Sorry, is getting dressed a task that needs your supervision?”  
  
Sherlock moaned as he rolled his eyes. “If you _must._ I’ll be downstairs. _Don’t_ be long.” He clattered briskly down the narrow staircase leading to the living room.  
  
Without Sherlock’s frenetic presence, the room felt drowsy once more. John stretched the stiffness out of his muscles and dragged the jumper on over his head. He caught a subtle movement out of the corner of his eye: steam curling up from a mug on the bedside table. Sherlock must have brought it up for him.  
  
John smiled as he sipped at it. Sherlock made a damn good cuppa. He might not have cared, but he was still a chemist, unable to forget temperature and concentration and reaction time, and the tea was steeped perfectly. Strong, just on the threshold of bitterness. It washed out the sticky sourness sleep had left behind.  
  
It was in this way that John was beginning to learn to read between the lines with Sherlock. Amid all the brusqueness and bluntness, there were small gestures of respect, and even of affection, if he looked for them. And all the strange business at Baskerville had called into question the nature of their relationship.  
  
John was in love with Sherlock, or at least in lust, or it was a kind of admiration, or maybe no one else in history had ever felt about another human the way John did about Sherlock, and so there had never been a word made up for it. Whatever it was, John had given up trying to resist it.  
  
But how Sherlock felt about him was still indecipherable. In Dartmoor, Sherlock had confessed that John was his friend. He said it like that, a _confession,_ as though he were terrified to look the truth of it in the eye. But of course they were friends, the idiot. Sherlock had even introduced John as a friend, many times before. So what the hell was Sherlock getting at?  
  
And then to look annoyed at John asking for privacy getting dressed, as though Sherlock could not fathom what intimacy there would be in nudity, as though he saw nothing in John’s body but its utility.  
  
John drained the rest of the tea and finished dressing as the buzzer rang below.  
  
*****  
  
Downstairs, Sherlock sat gracefully in his black leather chair as he considered their guest. His eyes flicked up to John as he came down the stairs.  
  
The client turned in his seat and gave John a relieved look. “There you are!” he gasped.  
  
“John Watson, hi,” he said as they shook hands, although he was pretty sure the client already knew who he was.  
  
“Chris,” he mumbled. To John’s eye, their client seemed the quintessential average bloke, if a bit on the posh side. Dark, graying hair, White, jeans and jacket over a t-shirt. Apart from the anxiety clearly twisting him up, John couldn’t find anything remarkable about him. Sherlock, undoubtedly, had uncovered more.  
  
“Fan of the blog?” John asked.  
  
“Yes, so when I read what happened to Garcia, I knew straight away, John and Sherlock, that’s who to turn to!” He smiled for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe his luck, before his face sunk once more.  
  
John sank into his armchair and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, but the detective’s attention was focused on Chris.  
  
“Tell us why you’re here, Mr. Eccles,” Sherlock prompted.  
  
John squinted. “Chris Eccles?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eccles snapped, “that’s my name!”  
  
Sherlock gave John a meaningful glance before turning back to the client. “Please.”  
  
“But if I… you can’t tell the police what I say?”  
  
“I am not the police,” Sherlock answered coolly, “nor am I a lawyer. I will see to it that you serve no time for a crime which you have not committed.”  
  
Eccles grimaced as though he felt nauseous. When John nodded to him, he sighed out a breath through pursed lips. “Alright, I didn’t kill Alex Garcia.”  
  
Sherlock’s face betrayed no reaction. “Didn’t you?”  
  
“No, I swear it, I was in the flat the whole time. I had nothing to do with any of that. Why would I want to kill him?”  
  
“Why indeed, but it does seem suspicious you know about a murder which has not yet been reported to the press.”  
  
“The press?” Eccles wrung his hands. “I don’t know anything about that. I just saw it on Facebook.”  
  
“Facebook?” Sherlock repeated with distaste.  
  
“Yeah, his sister posted about. That’s how I heard about it.”  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Start at the beginning, please. How were you and Garcia acquainted?”  
  
“Well, we met back in uni. Hadn’t heard from him in years, tell the truth, never were best mates or anything.”  
  
“But you’ve been in contact recently?” John asked.  
  
“Yeah, just a few days ago, he messages me, says he remembers how good I was at gadgets and could I come fix his DVD player. Says he’ll pay me a hundred quid for it and maybe we can catch up.”  
  
John sat forward in his chair. “A hundred pounds for a DVD player?”  
  
Eccles shrugged. “He’s rich, figured he didn’t know how much a new one costs. I wasn’t about to argue.”  
  
“When did you meet him to fix it?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“I don’t know, 8:00?”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And, I go to work on it, he says ‘no, no, don’t act like a stranger.’ He’s asking all about my wife, my kids. I’m showing him photos-“ he patted the phone in his pocket- “Gives me a beer. To be honest, I could’ve fixed the bloody thing and been gone in ten minutes. Just a screw come loose. But he keeps talking. He orders us takeaway, and-“  
  
“When?”  
  
Eccles shook his head as though overwhelmed. “Ten, maybe?”  
  
“So you stayed for dinner,” John asked.  
  
“Yeah, and we’re talking, sharing old stories, the glory days, you know. Until he says, ‘my God, look at the time,’ tells me I ought to stay the night.”  
  
“What time?”  
  
“Ah, it was one. Yeah, 1:00, I remember him saying it. He insists I take the bed, being his guest, so I do, and he sleeps on the sofa. Only, I wake up this morning, right, and he’s buggered off somewhere. Won’t answer his mobile. ‘Course I didn’t know he was dead. All I know is, he never paid me the hundred, and-“ He looked nervously between John and Sherlock. “Between us, I know he has more money than he knows what to do with. He’d hardly be hurt if I helped myself. Only then I think, well, he’ll know it was me who stole from him. So I take a few other things, rough up the place. I break the window and the door, so they think I had to break in.”  
  
“Of course you did,” said Sherlock, with an amused smile.  
  
Eccles slumped, having come to the conclusion of his tale. “I didn’t kill him, Mr. Holmes.”  
  
“I believe you,” Sherlock said, but there was no reassurance in his voice. “Unfortunately, given the burglary was several hours after the murder, it won’t serve as an alibi, as it once did for a friend of mine. Hm! Oh, I do love a case with a healthy sense of irony.”  
  
“What’s ironic?” John asked.  
  
“Well!” Sherlock gestured at Eccles with a smirk. “Eccles himself was meant to be an alibi. Garcia’s.”  
  
John frowned. “Why would the victim need an alibi?”  
  
“Garcia had plans of his own, most likely murderous, but it should become clear as we gather more evidence. The DVD player and his sudden interest in reconnection are obviously a pretense for keeping Eccles in the flat with him for a certain length of time. Garcia even volunteers to take the sofa, positioning himself to leave and re-enter the flat without Eccles’ notice. Something went wrong, of course. Perhaps we will learn he was killed in self-defense.” Sherlock checked his watch. “Well, it’s nearly 9:00, and the crime scene’s not getting any warmer. Thank you, Mr.-“  
  
“Nearly ten,” Eccles corrected.  
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows dubiously.  
  
“Yeah.” Eccles withdrew his phone and squinted at the screen. “Yeah, nearly ten.”  
  
“May I?” Sherlock held out his hand, and Eccles passed it over. He examined it briefly and smirked. “Well, that does make much more sense. Your phone’s been tampered with.”  
  
“Tampered?” Eccles echoed in alarm.  
  
“The time zone’s been altered. Simple. Yes!” Sherlock brought his steepled fingers to his lips as his eyes flicked rapidly back and forth. “He changed the clock on your phone when you gave it to him to show him the pictures. Yes, that gives Garcia an hour to execute his plan while he has Eccles to corroborate his alibi. Had things gone according to plan, he would have found some reason to rouse you at two, to cement the timeline. Of course.” He pulled out his own phone and typed quickly. “Thank you, Mr. Eccles, we’ll be in touch.”  
  
John smiled politely as Eccles left flat. As soon as he heard the front door shut, he turned back to Sherlock. “Obviously a fake name,” he said.  
  
“Yes, but how did you know?”  
  
“ _Chris Eccles._ Like Christopher Eccleston? He’s one of the Doctors, isn’t he?”  
  
Sherlock blinked in nonrecognition. “One of your colleagues?”  
  
“Doctor _Who,_ Sherlock.”  
  
He moaned in annoyance. “God, it’s always that. But he was overly defensive when you questioned it, that’s what gave it away. It’s a good trick, actually. Question all our clients’ names from now on.” His phone pinged, and he beamed in delight at its message. He passed it to John.  
  
Sherlock: _Tell your officers check clocks in Garcia’s flat SH_  
  
Lestrade: _They’re all an hour fast. Mean something to you?_  
  
“Well!” Sherlock stood and buttoned his jacket. “Let’s see what we can uncover about the crimes Garcia intended to commit between midnight and 1:00 am."  
  
*****  
  
“Three criminals!” Sherlock crowed as they settled into the backseat of the cab. “Each with their own crime, and varying levels of success. Promises be a good one for your _blog._ ” Sherlock over-pronounced the last word, eager to remind John of how little he thought of the blog.  
  
“The blog just brought us a client.”  
  
“The Yard had already brought the case to us.”  
  
“Yeah, but now you get to prance around showing off what you already know to them.”  
  
Sherlock squirmed in his seat. “I do not _prance._ ”  
  
“Yeah you do.” John turned away from Sherlock’s sullen expression to watch the familiar city buildings slide past through the window.  
  
“Wonder how long it’ll take him to write this one up… He does take his time,” Sherlock mumbled.  
  
John turned to look at Sherlock. It was a strange thing to say, made stranger still by referring to John in the third person; but as he watched, he saw that Sherlock’s lips weren’t moving. _Always pads the essential facts with silly praises of me… What will it be this time? I’ll put on a good show for him._  
  
John wasn’t hearing Sherlock speak, because he wasn’t speaking at all; John was imagining it. He rubbed at his eyes as he wondered if it could be a residual effect of Baskerville’s hallucinogenic fog. Hard as he tried to put it out of his head, the half-heard sound of Sherlock’s voice continued.  
  
“What was it Garcia was up to, then?”  
  
“We can only speculate at this stage.”  
  
It was a relief to properly hear Sherlock, although the whispers continued as soon as he stopped speaking.  
  
“You said earlier you thought it was murder,” he said, trying to get Sherlock to keep talking.  
  
“Someone was willing to use lethal force to stop him. Although, there could certainly be other reasons. Perhaps Garcia and our murderer were working together on something, and he was double-crossed. Whatever it was, they were expecting him, but didn’t want to alert the police.” Sherlock drummed his fingers on his thigh. “There are plenty of ways to get away with a murder, but Garcia knew he would be a suspect. That’s why the alibi was crucial. There must be some link between the two, one that Garcia knew the police would find.”  
  
Sherlock’s list of possible connections forced its way into John’s imagination. He spent the rest of the cab ride prompting Sherlock to talk as much as possible, which was never difficult.  
  
John started to feel normal again once they made it to the crime scene. With all of the officers and the blood congealing on the pavement to distract him, Sherlock’s voice dropped out of his head.  
  
“Alex Garcia,” Lestrade announced as John and Sherlock approached. “Forty-eight. Shot twice in the chest around 12:30 last night.” He passed a file to Sherlock. “Any point asking how you already knew his name?”  
  
“We have our sources,” John answered, as Sherlock lifted his chin.  
  
“Our best theory is that the suspect wanted something off Garcia. Suspect confronts Garcia, he won’t hand it over, so suspect kills him. Only, Garcia doesn’t have it on his person, so the suspect breaks into the flat. Steals a few other things while they’re at it to throw us off.”  
  
“Excellent reasoning, Detective Inspector, and entirely incorrect.” Sherlock focused down on the file in his hand, which contained photos of the body before it had been removed from the scene. John stepped closer to look at them.  
  
“Care to enlighten us?” Lestrade asked, with a resigned tone.  
  
Sherlock didn’t answer, too absorbed in examining the photographs. As John did the same, he felt as though he were seeing them as Sherlock would. The whole of the photographs- the dead man with blood all over his shirt, the gun still in its holster- faded into insignificance. Instead, he saw only details. He saw a clumsily repaired seam at the armpit of the shirt, which he recognized from the cut and stitching as Armani, even though the photos didn’t show the label. And the watch- John knew instantly it was a Breitling released three years ago at eight thousand pounds, and the stem of the crown was broken…  
  
But John couldn’t really identify watches, other than maybe one’s he’d owned himself. Not the way Sherlock could. Sherlock, who studied catalogues and periodically browsed boutiques and department stores, memorizing the offerings. These were Sherlock’s observations, not John’s. And it was Sherlock who drew the conclusion: _blackmail._  
  
“Your impressions, Doctor?”  
  
John blinked up at Sherlock. He’d entirely forgotten he was supposed to be doing his own analysis. “Ah…” He quickly glanced over the photo again. “Looks to be in good health, apart from the bullet holes. Looks like one might have struck a subclavian artery, but it’s hard to say from a photo. Probably died within a few minutes of blood loss.”  
  
“We’ll see if the coroner’s report turns up any surprises.”  
  
“And he was being blackmailed?” John added quickly, failing to keep the question out of his voice.  
  
Sherlock’s sharp eyes met John’s. “Yes, I think so. How did you put it together?”  
  
“Er- the shirt is expensive but he’s repaired it himself, there.”  
  
“Very good. The watch is more telling-“  
  
“A 2010 Breitling.” John smiled as Sherlock’s expression shifted from surprise to annoyance. “Cost thousands of pounds when he bought it, but it’s broken. So he has a decently high-paying job but he can’t afford new things.”  
  
Sherlock’s chest swelled as he inhaled deeply. His eyes dropped from John’s. “Good, you’ve studied my website.”  
  
John wanted to shake his head at how Sherlock had found a way to take credit for John’s deductions, the cocky bastard- even if they really were Sherlock’s- but then he felt it: a wave of disappointment, and anxiety, that could only be coming from Sherlock. And his voice: _That’s it, then. If you can’t impress him anymore, what’s to keep him? What good are you? Stupid!_  
  
John stumbled backward. It finally dawned at him that if he really was hearing Sherlock’s thoughts- and he must have been, there was no other way he could’ve identified the watch- then it was a gross violation of privacy. He’d never thought of Sherlock as someone who needed privacy. He never respected anyone else’s, after all. But John wasn’t supposed to have heard what he did.  
  
A few steps away, now, the anxiety lifted, and Sherlock’s voice went quiet, but John’s heart was pounding. He’d have to tell Sherlock. And then what?  
  
“He could’ve bought them second hand,” Lestrade said, sounding a world away.  
  
“Doubt it,” Sherlock answered flatly. “Have you spoken to the sister yet?”  
  
“What I don’t get-!” John started, louder than he meant it to be, “is why, er, why not sell the watch? If he needs the money?”  
  
“It’s broken, and he can’t afford to have it repaired,” Sherlock explained. “Probably he’s sold his other watches, but kept this one. He couldn’t sell it, and anyway, he’s trying to keep up appearances. A watch like that is a status symbol. Look at the nails, and the eyebrows; he’s meticulous in his grooming. He cares about looking the part.”  
  
“Brilliant!” John said, and he did mean it. “It’s-“ he pointed at Sherlock as he widened his eyes at Lestrade- “I mean, amazing, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Lestrade said without enthusiasm, catching on but not understanding, “we’re all dazzled by his genius.”  
  
“Laying it on a bit _thick,_ John,” Sherlock murmured. But he twitched his shoulders, like a bird smoothing out its feathers, and he strode confidently into the alley to examine the scene.  
  
Lestrade stepped over to John. “What was that about?”  
  
“Forget it.” He watched Sherlock crouch to look closer at something on the ground. Then he realized how close Lestrade was standing to him. He searched Lestrade’s face, listening hard, but the only thoughts that came to him were his own.  
  
Lestrade’s brow furrowed as he stared back. “John, is everything alright with you two?”  
  
“What? Yeah.”  
  
“Because I know things got… intense at Baskerville.”  
  
“No, no. We’re fantastic!”  
  
“Oh!” Lestrade looked over at Sherlock and then back to John. “Alright, then.”  
  
“Not…” John held out his hand, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort to try and disabuse Lestrade of whatever assumption he’d just made. He shook his head and walked toward Sherlock, who was now standing around the corner of a building and poking his head into the alleyway. He frowned, glanced up at a fire escape, and shook his head sharply.  
  
Whatever experiments Sherlock was running, John could conduct his own. He got closer, heard, _no, too dark to make out a reflection at night_ \- stepped back again, heard nothing. It seemed he needed to be about arm’s-length from Sherlock.  
  
Even though it hadn’t worked on Lestrade, John wanted to test it on someone else one more time. He wandered over to Sergeant Donovan, where she was examining a clear bag holding bullet casings. “Any other, ah…?”  
  
She tossed her head and glowered at him. “Pardon?”  
  
He stepped closer as he tried, and failed, to come up with a legitimate reason to talk to her. “You know… clues?”  
  
_“Clues?”_ He didn’t need to read her mind to know what Sally was thinking: her face said it all.  
  
“Thanks!” he said, and quickly left her behind to rejoin Sherlock. Fortunately, Sherlock was too focused on his work to take notice of John’s activities.  
  
“How did the murderer know Garcia would come through this way?” Sherlock said aloud (John saw his mouth moving). He spun in a circle until he was facing Lestrade. “We need more information. Garcia knew we would find a link between him and his intended target- we know because of how keen he was to establish an alibi-“  
  
“Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted, “ _we’re_ consulting _you_ on this case, not the other way round. Tell us what you already know, or I can’t let you work on this case.”  
  
“Shame, it would be so much faster,” Sherlock said lightly. But he gave Lestrade a summary of their earlier interview with Eccles. As he concluded, he said, “Phone records, email, financial records- there will be something. Find it, you’ll have found the murderer. The hard part will be in proving it- and in bringing him in. There’s a good chance he’s already fled the city.”  
  
“Great… We’ll-“  
  
“Have copies sent to Baker Street!” Sherlock called over his shoulder as he headed toward the main road.  
  
John jogged to catch up. “We’re going back home?”  
  
“Yes. Impossible to think with everyone… _thinking_ all at once,” Sherlock said, waving his hand impatiently.  
  
“No kidding,” John muttered, as he braced himself for another cab ride with Sherlock and his thoughts.  
  
*****   
  
_The killer knew Garcia was coming for him last night… How would he have known to intercept him? If he had caught wind of his scheme with Eccles and put it together as I did, then…_  
  
John kept his eyes out of the window, trying to deduce anything at all about the people and cars and buildings they whizzed past, just to block out Sherlock’s thoughts. But it wasn’t working, and every moment he spent eavesdropping without telling Sherlock he could hear it felt like a betrayal of trust.  
  
What the hell was he supposed to say? Even John was half convinced he’d gone mad. Maybe it was something to keep to himself.  
  
_If the killer were spying on Garcia, hacked into his computer, that would give him fodder for blackmail as well as alerting him to his plans. No such thing as privacy in the digital age…_  
  
He took a deep breath and made himself look at Sherlock. “Actually, there’s something I need to tell you.”  
  
John felt Sherlock’s attention snap onto him, heard Sherlock rapidly considering possible somethings. It was almost an out-of-body experience, as he felt Sherlock scrutinizing him and felt himself being scrutinized. It was hard to follow, until the thoughts jolted to _confessing romantic feelings?_ , then ricocheted violently to _idiot! Don’t let that cloud your judgement._  
  
John felt like he’d been punched in the gut, and he didn’t know if it was his own feeling or Sherlock’s.  
  
“What? No- that’s not- what?” John stammered.  
  
Sherlock frowned. “Are you feeling alright, John?” And the more confused Sherlock was, the faster his thoughts splintered and spun like a kaleidoscope, surreally visual, as John saw and didn’t see a list of John’s apparent symptoms being cross-referenced with various medical conditions.  
  
“No!” John surprised himself by shouting it. “I mean, yes, I’m fine, or, no, but not how you’re thinking.” He couldn’t hear _himself_ think over the circus in Sherlock’s head. He had a sudden mad impulse to open the door of the cab and leap out, just to get out of range of Sherlock’s mind. “Nevermind. We’ll talk about it later. How would the killer have known Garcia was coming last night?”  
  
Sherlock began to speak, and as he did the thoughts settled in harmoniously to what he was saying, and John sighed in relief. It was only a temporary reprieve, he knew, but it would be easier to talk in 221B, where he could keep his distance.  
  
Clouded by _what?_


	2. Chapter 2

“Something’s troubling you. Tell me what it is.” Sherlock didn’t look away from the window as he spoke, watching for the police car that would bring the Garcia files.

John wished the files had beaten them to the flat, but of course they hadn’t. Him and Sherlock were left waiting, and that meant talking.

Now, out of range of Sherlock’s thoughts as he sat in his armchair, John regretted saying anything in the cab. It seemed plausible that they could just keep such a distance forever, and John never need tell Sherlock, and they could carry on as before.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” he said to Sherlock’s back.

“I’ll believe what has evidence to support it.”

John huffed. He plucked at a loose thread of the upholstery. “I can read your mind.”

“Something I’ve often been accused of.”

“No, Sherlock, seriously. I can hear your thoughts. Well, hearing isn’t the right word, and it’s not just thoughts-“

Finally, Sherlock turned and looked at John, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. He studied John for a long moment, then spoke quickly. “You were right, I don’t believe you. The evidence doesn’t support it.”

John sat forward. “Hang on, I haven’t told you the evidence!”

“I gave you a test- _thought_ of a test for you- and you utterly failed.”

“No-“ He sighed roughly and got to his feet. “It only works if I’m close enough.” He approached Sherlock and put one hand on his shoulder, arm extended. “Only about this far.”

John imagined Sherlock placing his hands on John’s waist, the two of them stepping gracefully into a dance, as a trill of notes on a violin played…

In reality, Sherlock raised a hand to John’s jaw, and tilted it upward. He stared into John’s eyes, the light from the window glowing around his curls.

Ice burst in John’s chest as he realized Sherlock was about to kiss him. Not that he didn’t want- but he hadn’t expected it to happen now- or like this- or-

But that wasn’t what Sherlock was doing. John was pissed, as he heard what Sherlock was thinking, and pissed at himself for being pissed.

“That’s not how you evaluate head trauma,” he growled.

“This is how I do it.”

“Then you do it wrong.” He jerked his head away, trying to wrestle down his temper.

“Tell me which concerto I’m thinking of.”

A quick, high melody started, like a song was stuck in John’s head, but it wasn’t one he recognized. “It’s Bruch’s Violin Concerto Number One,” he answered easily. “In G minor- should I keep going?”

Sherlock’s mouth curled into a smile. “Forgive me. I needed to verify the situation for myself.”

“Yeah, well, now that you _believe_ me…”

The buzzer sounded, and John jumped back from Sherlock, flexing his fingers.

*****

John picked up a file folder and fanned out the paper within. “We should start with the banking records, yeah?”

But Sherlock had turned away from the files without a second glance. “We have other things to work out now,” he said, dropping heavily onto the sofa. “Anyway, finding this particular needle in the haystack is more a question of manpower than sophistication. That’s the one area the Yard always has us beat.”

He didn’t say anything more, so John found the most recent bank statement and started scanning the transactions.

“It seems we’ve become the next of Baskerville’s unwilling test subjects,” Sherlock announced after a few minutes.

“We?” John asked. “You’re not reading minds too, now, are you?”

“You’re sure the only thoughts you’ve overhead have been mine?”

“So far, at least.”

“And what distinguishes me from your other associates?”

John laughed.

“I was also there with you in Baskerville,” Sherlock answered shortly. “Whatever is occurring involves two brains, yours and mine.” His eyes unfocused as he murmured, “Transmitter and receiver…”

“Could they have drugged us, then? Something else in the fog?”

“Can’t be. The fog would have impacted us both similarly, but we’re experiencing different phenomena. Besides, this is much too complex to be chemical.”

“Well it’s not as if they cracked us open and operated on our brains. I think we’d have spotted that already.”

“Seems much more like software than neurobiology, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” John dropped the neglected file folder back onto the pile. “Are you thinking microchips…?”

Sherlock’s head rolled to face John. “Earlier. You said _hearing_ wasn’t quite right.”

“No, well, it’s other things. Your… attention, and… emotions.” John pursed his lips. It sounded strangely intimate, when he said it that way.

If Sherlock felt embarrassed, he didn’t let on. “Verbal thought is only one product of the brain’s electrical activity. The firing of my synapses are being captured and transmitted to you…”

“But why? Are they monitoring us?”

Sherlock flicked away that suggestion with his hand. “The range of the transmission can’t reach the other side of this room, let alone their laboratories.” Held pressed his palms together and rested his fingertips on his lips. “Proof of concept,” he said, sitting up. “They knew of our connections to Mycroft. They knew we’d come back, if it worked. And if they never hear from us again, they assume it didn’t work.”

“Couldn’t they have just tested it out themselves?”

“A scientist never includes themself in their own dataset. They would have been biased by their own expectations. That’s the thing about uninformed subjects, totally unbiased… This is where science without ethics leads.”

Sherlock rose and crossed the room for his laptop, and as he passed, John heard: _…doesn’t add up is why they chose John as the receiver, rather than me, given my extraordinary…_

Sherlock opened his laptop and started typing. “We need to establish a timeline. Everything we did in Baskerville, every room we entered, every person we spoke to, every substance we touched…”

“Hang on,” John said, smiling a little, “are you miffed that _you’re_ not the one who gets to read minds?”

“I’m just trying to understand the motivations of our unknown researcher.”

John joined Sherlock at the cluttered desk. “That’s not what you were thinking. I heard you. You can’t stand that you’re not the special one anymore, can you?”

_You’ve always been the special one._

“I’ll make us tea for while we’re working,” John said, and he quickly walked to the kitchen. He’d gone out of range to hear Sherlock’s thoughts, but nevertheless he felt his eyes following him.

*****

There was just under a half hour neither of them could account for, between Sherlock trapping John alone in the lab ( _Prank,_ John called it. _Experiment,_ Sherlock insisted) and borrowing Dr. Stapleton’s microscope to examine the sugar.

Sherlock slumped in the chair and let his head loll backward. “I suppose I’ll need to pay a visit to my brother.”

“It’s good we have him, though. No idea what we’d do if we didn’t.”

“Without him, we wouldn’t have been selected as subjects at all.”

“Yeah, and the Henry Knight case would still be unsolved.”

“Hrm,” Sherlock grunted, unwilling to agree but unable to argue against it. He sprang up as his phone began to ring. “Lestrade!” He tapped the speaker phone button and held it out to John.

“You two found anything?” said Lestrade’s voice through a haze of static.

John gave Sherlock a guilty look. “Ah, not yet, no.”

“What have you got?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, it looks like you were right. Bank statements show fixed, regular payments.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock shifted his weight through his hips in a subdued dance of excitement. “What information do we have about the account he was making the payments to?”

At this, the phone emitted a loud, crackling sigh. “All we know is that it’s Swiss.”

“Damn,” Sherlock swore.

“That’s a dead end, then?” John asked.

“Not completely,” Lestrade said. “We can make a case that we have evidence of criminal activity, and that could get us the name of the account holder…”

Sherlock snarled in frustration. “We haven’t got time to wait on the Swiss to complete their paperwork.”

“In the meantime, we’ll keep looking through the records, see if there’s any communication between Garcia and the blackmailer.”

But Sherlock was shaking his head. “You won’t find anything. They would have used burner phones.”

“We didn’t find a burner on his person or in his flat.”

“The killer took it, then, after he shot him.”

“Well, until you give us another angle on this, we’re going to work with what we have.”

“You do that,” Sherlock said, and hung up.

“Garcia was wrong, then,” John said. “We don’t have any leads.”

“The killer’s covered his tracks well. If he were the identified victim, Garcia would perhaps have emerged as a suspect. In the other direction, however…” Sherlock froze, eyes staring past John. “The other direction… What do we know about the killer? What do we _actually_ know?”

“He has a gun?”

“Yes? And?”

John looked around as though hoping a classmate would raise a hand and rescue him from having to answer. “Nothing. He was in the alley off Aintree last night?”

Sherlock smiled- correct answer. “And Garcia knew that was how to find him. So let’s stop looking for information we don’t have and follow what we do.”

“Okay.” John was started to feel excited again as Sherlock picked up momentum. “So we’ll go back-“

But Sherlock had turned abruptly and disappeared into his room.

“Right, what are you doing?” John called, hovering awkwardly in the kitchen.

“I might be a while,” Sherlock called back.

He emerged over an hour later, looking wretched. He’d changed into baggy, fading clothes, a tee shirt over stained sweatpants, and a thin windbreaker. That on its own wouldn’t have been enough to surprise John, but it was what had happened to Sherlock’s face. There were dark, gloomy circles beneath his eyes, and he seemed to have grown at least a day’s worth of stubble in an hour.

“Is that makeup?”

“Yes.” Sherlock opened the fridge and rummaged around before finding a bottle of beer. He uncapped it and, without hesitation, poured it over his head.

“Sherlock! You couldn’t have done that over the sink?”

Sherlock shook out his hair and blinked. “That ought to sell it! Right, you might not hear from me for a few days.”

John swallowed his disappointment. “What should I do until you’re back, then?”

“See what use you can be to Lestrade. Bye!” And he crashed down the stairs and out the door.

*****

John and Lestrade spent the next couple days interviewing Garcia’s sister and employer, reviewing the coroner’s and ballistics reports, and coming up utterly empty-handed.

He was greatly relieved, then, when Sherlock bounded up the stairs with a triumphant grin.

“I’ve found her!” he sang, eyes sparkling.

“The killer?”

“Well, someone with advanced coding skills and a secret who lives a street over from the scene, at least. I would have waited for more evidence to confirm it, but she was starting to notice me. Now!” He stepped closer to John, transmitting a burst of energy and a rancid smell. “What have you and Lestrade uncovered?”

“Not much. Garcia-“ John took a step back. “Seems like he pretty much kept to himself. No enemies that anyone knew of.”

Sherlock glanced John over. “I’m touched by your attempt to respect my privacy, John, but it really isn’t necessary.”

“It’s… not that.”

“What?”

John tilted his head.

Sherlock widened his eyes.

“Take a shower, will you?” John finally snapped.

“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock’s face soured. “There isn’t much for us to do until tomorrow, I suppose.”

“Great… why, what are we doing tomorrow?”

“Breaking and entering,” Sherlock said, shrugging off the windbreaker.

“Shouldn’t we get…?” But John’s question was chased away by the sight of track marks on Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock followed John’s gaze and sighed through his teeth. He rubbed at one with his finger until it smudged.

John looked away. “I didn’t-“

“Not enough evidence for a warrant. We’ll just be looking for something to point the investigation her way. She goes out each day around 8:30 and doesn’t return until the afternoon.”

“No. No. It’s too risky. Nevermind the danger, if we get caught, the judge can dismiss-“

“I understand your objections.” Sherlock seemed to shrink, and he pouted a little. John recognized it as the act he put on for Molly when she wouldn’t give him his way. “I could go alone, of course…”

John clenched his jaw. “Fine,” he spat, grateful Sherlock couldn’t hear the string of curses going through his head. “I’m going with you.”  
Sherlock straightened up again, beaming.

*****

After Sherlock had showered, they settled in to do what they were worst at: killing time.

Sherlock sat in his black chair with his eyes closed, and remained that way. Mrs. Hudson came up with dinner, and she gossiped with John as they ate and watched telly. After she’d gone down to bed, John tried to keep watching. But something in the meaningless program, and the beer, and maybe Sherlock’s absence for a few days, combined into a squirming memory of sitting in the bedsit he’d stayed in before meeting Sherlock. Waiting for something to happen to him.

John turned and watched Sherlock, perfect in his stillness. His pale skin reflected the changing colors from the telly. It was reassuring just to look at his flatmate, and to think of the strange life they had built together.

He wondered what Sherlock was thinking, how he could shut out the world for hours. Any other night, he would have waved that wonder away. He’s Sherlock- who the hell knew what went on in that head. He was miles away, figuratively.

But Sherlock was only feet away, literally, and in fact, John could get up and join Sherlock wherever he figuratively was. He could step right into the mind palace. There was nothing stopping him but a vague sense that he wasn’t supposed to.

John pursed his lips and glanced around the room. Sherlock hadn’t twitched a muscle when Mrs. Hudson came in. Would he even notice, if John walked right up to him? If he didn’t notice, did that make it worse?

John stood and stretched lazily, a performance for no one, and walked to the window.

As he passed Sherlock, a violin sounded, clear and bright, then fell silent again. John turned to study him; he still hadn’t moved. “Composing?”

Sherlock hummed, then rose out of the chair with surprising swiftness. He yanked his music stand out of the corner and found a pencil among the clutter on the desk. He made a few quick strokes on the paper.

John watched, considering. He knew better than to interrupt Sherlock while he was composing. But he also knew that he composed to work something out- not for a case, not a puzzle, but something internal, emotional. And maybe… “Are you thinking about Irene?”

“Irene?” He paused to look up at John, then focused back on the page. “No…” The sleeve of his dressing gown fell as raised his arm, revealing pink skin where the fake track marks had been scrubbed off.

John rubbed his pinky against his ring finger. “I think I get it, now.”

“Get it?” Sherlock asked, only half listening.

“Why you’d want an escape.”

For a long moment, Sherlock didn’t answer, and the only sounds were the scratching of his pencil and the traffic hushing past. Then, as though he had only just heard it, Sherlock looked up in surprise. “I never used drugs as an escape, John.”

“Right,” John said, as an unaccountable anger surged through him. “It was only about the _work._ ”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied flatly. “You’re welcome to step closer and hear it for yourself.”

“No, I don’t want-“ He set his hands on the desk and leaned against it, head bowed.

“I hadn’t realized my mind was so intolerable.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

He hadn’t meant to shout it. He hadn’t meant the conversation to go this way at all. He was rubbish at this sort of conversation. But he’d thought, after everything he’d accidentally overheard, maybe Sherlock really did care for him more than he let on, and if they could just talk…

Sherlock didn’t flinch. “I’ve angered you.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Tell me what I’ve done wrong.”

“Nothing, Sherlock. It’s just that-“ He bit his lip. “I don’t understand you. Even hearing everything in your head. I just don’t understand you.”

Sherlock stared steadily back at John for a painfully long time. Then he lifted his violin and began to play.

It was pretty- all of Sherlock’s compositions were- and almost familiar. But the music seemed to scrape at John. He felt like one of the strings, pulled taught, vibrating fast.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A content warning for this chapter: brief, non-explicit discussion of child pornography.

John swore as he, once again, woke to find Sherlock hovering beside his bed.

“John. Good morning,” Sherlock said in a strange voice.

“What…?”

“While you were asleep I spent a few hours reviewing our conversation-“

John sat up and rubbed his face. “Oh, God…”

“-and while I confess I have yet to pinpoint my error-“

John threw the blankets off himself and crossed the room to pull on his robe. He couldn’t stand to be so close to Sherlock; his anxiety was infecting John, making his palms sweat and his heart race. He started down the stairs as Sherlock followed him, still talking.

“-I want to assure you that I value our partnership a great deal, and if you would be so kind as to enlighten me as to my mistake, I-“

“Sherlock, just stop!” John walked quickly into the living room, grateful to escape the range of transmission. He turned and saw Sherlock still standing at the base of the stairs.

His arms were out at his sides, humbling himself. “I’m apologizing,” he said. “Why isn’t it working?”

“Because you haven’t done anything to apologize for,” John explained tiredly.

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“Look, I was just being a dick last night, okay? It wasn’t anything you did. So… I’m sorry, and let’s forget it.”

“Forget it,” Sherlock echoed, without agreement.

*****

“Victoria Burnet,” John read off an envelope, as he shuffled through the stack of mail on the counter. Bills, coupons… “You’re sure she’s our killer?”

Sherlock sat at the desk, giving the computer a stern stare. “Seventy-five percent sure,” he answered, without looking up.

It was a strange flat. The building itself was elderly, and had not been maintained well. Burnet’s flat was a single, open room, other than the minuscule toilet. There wasn’t space for much more than the bed, desk, and cramped kitchenette. But the contents struck John as quite nice. The stove looked from the seventies, but on the counter beside it was a shining stainless-steel coffee maker with a touch screen. Original artwork decorated the crumbling walls. Then there was the frankly overwhelming set up of computer hardware on the desk. None of it was _posh,_ exactly, but the belongings seemed at odds with the dodgy real estate. John was reminded of a bird’s nest he’d once seen in a rain gutter, with a gleaming silver tie pin nestled in amongst the twigs and plastic straws.

“So there’s a one-in-four chance we’ve broken into a random woman’s flat?” John flipped to the next envelope.

“Well, we’re not going to _steal_ anything,” Sherlock drawled.

John shook his head, but before he could express his exasperation, he was distracted by the postmark. “Hang on. Letter posted from Switzerland.”

“Ninety-percent sure.”

“It’s a bank statement.” He scanned the list of withdrawals and deposits. “There’s a deposit that matches what was taken from Garcia’s account.”

“And ninety-eight.”

John brought the papers to Sherlock. “Look.”

Sherlock’s eyes tracked rapidly down the page. “Not all of these can be from Garcia.”

“No.”

“Must be… five others, at least. She’s negotiated different rates with each of them, but I’ll bet the other statements would show a pattern.”

John folded up the statement and tucked into his jacket pocket. “Are they in danger, too, then?”

“Good lord, John, you’d be an abysmal blackmailer.”

“Damn! I was thinking of branching out.”

“She needs them alive, it’s the only way she’ll get at their money. All the same, have a look around for that gun. With any luck, she won’t have tossed it.” He turned back to the computer and glowered at it. He gripped both sides of the monitor, as though to intimidate it. “But _where_ are the files?”

“She’s a hacker, Sherlock,” John said placatingly, climbing down to peer inside a heating vent. “She won’t have a password that can be guessed.”

“No. But the computer’s a dead end regardless.”

“Why’s that?”

Sherlock began rummaging around, pulling open each of the drawers and feeling along their sides. “It’s entirely likely this computer has no incriminating files on it at all. Should she ever be under investigation, she can hand over the computer freely, deflect suspicion off herself.” He pointed at John without turning around. “We’re also looking for a hard drive, or USB, something…”

John tilted the mattress on its side, but there was nothing hidden beneath it. “Do we even need to see the files?” he asked. “The bank statement should be enough for a warrant.”

“Yes, but if she knows we’re on to her, she can wipe everything in minutes. Without the murder weapon or the blackmail material, she has a good chance of getting- aha!”

John dropped the mattress to watch Sherlock rip a USB off the underside of the desktop.

“Well, what do we have here?” Sherlock said, back to being pleased with himself.

John pursed his lips.

“Shame we can’t use her computer to look at the contents,” Sherlock continued. “We’ll have to go through it at home.” He rose from the chair and got to work rearranging the desk back to how it had been when they first entered.

“Just… seems a bit too easy, doesn’t it?” John asked hesitantly.

“The files might be encrypted, but I’m sure we can get through it, especially with the help of the Yard.” But Sherlock, too, seemed to hesitate. He held up the drive again and pushed the button to slide the drive out of the plastic casing. “The tape,” he said. “It was quite firmly attached. Then the shallow grooves…” He held up the drive for John to inspect. “This hasn’t been used more than a handful of times.”

“So… that drive hasn’t been used enough to be where she keeps her blackmail material.” A smile pulled at the corner of John’s mouth. “It’s a decoy?”

“Possibly. Regardless, the question becomes: where is the drive she’s using?”

“She could have it on her?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Much too risky.”

“We’ll keep looking. I’ll take the kitchen, you go through the wardrobe.”

While Sherlock was pontificating on how to spot hidden pockets sewn into the lining of a coat, John found a USB rattling around inside a chipped red mug.  
“This- this has got to be it, Sherlock,” John said. It was identical to the decoy, but clearly much more used. The logo had rubbed nearly completely off, and the drive slid loosely in and out of the case.

Sherlock rushed over and inspected it gleefully. “I suppose _this,_ ” he said, holding up the decoy, “contains some kind of malware. Hm! She is clever.” He tucked both into his pocket. “Well, we’ve got what we need for the Yard. You see, John, although my methods can carry some amount of risk, you'll find-"

But at that moment, a key scraped into the lock at the door.

John and Sherlock looked at each other, and then both turned to look at the webcam mounted atop the computer, LED light winking.

“Fuck, Sherlock!”

“Time to go!”

John reached for his gun, but Sherlock grabbed his arm, whirled him around, and shoved him forward. _The window!_

John threw it open and had one foot onto the fire escape when the door creaked open behind them.

“Stop!” A woman’s voice shouted. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

Thoughts arrived from Sherlock in the span of seconds, much faster than he could have spoken them aloud. _She’s bluffing. If she does shoot, I’m covering you. Go! John, go now, you’ll be safe!_

But John didn’t go. If Sherlock hadn’t thought it for him, he wouldn’t have even considered it. He stepped back down and stood beside Sherlock.

“Alright, put- put that gun the floor.” In spite of the stammer, Burnet’s voice still came out hard and determined.

 _Do as she says, and don’t try anything,_ Sherlock commanded in John’s head. _She’s alarmed, but she doesn’t want to kill anyone else. If we comply, she won’t get violent._

John nodded. He didn’t feel scared. He was sure he could turn and fire before Burnet could. He knew from the mess she’d made of Garcia that she wasn’t a crack shot. But Sherlock was scared, despite how composed he was coming across. He was afraid of John getting hurt.

“Now!” Burnet barked.

“Alright,” John said, lifting his hands over his head. “Alright, we don’t want anyone getting hurt. I’m getting my gun now to put it on the floor. I’m setting it down. There-“

Burnet’s footsteps rushed toward them, then backed up. “Turn around.”

They turned. God, John thought, she was just a kid. Then he wondered when mid-twenties began qualifying as a kid. Christ, he was getting old.

She hardly fit the profile for blackmail and homicide. She was short, and pretty, with her hair pulled into a simple bun. She wore a loose-fitting jumper bearing a screen-printed tiger over tight, ripped jeans. She gripped the gun with both hands and shifted her weight anxiously.

“I don’t know what you two creeps are playing at,” she started.

“I think you do,” Sherlock said.

Burnet’s eyes flicked onto Sherlock, then back to John, who she seemed to consider more of a threat. “Whatever. I have footage of you breaking in here, going through my things. You’re not police. You don’t have a warrant. You’ve just committed a crime, and I have it on video.”

Sherlock grinned.

“So we- we both could send each other to jail,” she continued. “Or we could both forget this ever happened.”

“Oh, that’s not a game you want to play with us,” Sherlock purred. “You will not win.”

“We have friends in very, _very_ high places,” John added.

“You’re just like them,” Burnet whispered, her face contorted with malice, and suddenly John had no trouble believing she was capable of murder.

“Just like who?” Sherlock asked. “Garcia and your other victims?”

“Victims!” She took a step forward and adjusted her grip on the gun. “They’re hardly victims. You don’t know what they’ve done.”

“Enlighten us,” Sherlock said.

“You want to know what’s on that drive in your pocket? It’s fucking kiddie porn. These men, they get off on seeing little children traumatized, they make their rapists rich. Garcia deserved what he got. I hope that bastard’s in hell.”

“So… what, you’re some kind of vigilante?” John asked.

“Why not take what you had to the police?” Sherlock pressed.

“I was going to. The first- I confronted him. He offered to pay me to keep quiet. And… Well, I’m not proud of it, but I was in trouble myself, and I really needed the money. I always thought- once I got back on my feet- then I’d turn him in… But I was watching him” She lifted her chin. “He was terrified, constantly. Always looking over his shoulder. I thought- I send him to prison, he’s got hope of getting out. And maybe he does get out, eventually. But before he’s caught, he’s suffering as much as he would in prison, maybe even more, and I was getting something out of it. Who wins, really, if he goes to jail? No one.”

“And the people creating the pornography get to carry on, while you profit,” Sherlock said.

“No! No, I submitted the videos to anti-trafficking organizations. Anonymously, of course. And once I had enough cash to get away from- to get out of trouble, I started donating what I could. I’ve got a job, for fuck’s sake! I live off that!”

“You may believe yourself to be justified in all this, Miss Burnet, but nothing gives you the right to act as judge, jury, and executioner.”

Her eyes widened at the last word. “I never meant to kill anyone,” she said softly. “Garcia was coming after me. I waited as long as I could. I hoped he wouldn’t go through with it. But he was coming to kill me. I defended myself.”

“And it’s all coming apart now, isn’t it?” Sherlock said. “You should have fled when you had the chance.”

“I had some things to wrap up. Now that includes you two.”

*****

Burnet sat them back-to-back and tied them roughly together with an extension cord. She confiscated the USBs from Sherlock, slung a packed back over her shoulder, and left them there, locking the door behind her.

The only thing saving the pair of them from a thorough humiliation was the bank statement tucked into John’s jacket. Though Burnet had patted him down, the thin paper had escaped her notice. Shame she’d missed Sherlock’s lecture.

It was hardly an intimate position, there on the floor, but all the same, John savored the feeling of Sherlock at his back, solid and warm. He leaned into it, and felt a curl brush the nape of his neck. He wouldn’t have minded staying there a while.

“I owe you an apology, John.” Sherlock’s voice was somber, rumbling deep in his chest, but his thoughts gave away the punchline: _not a good case for the blog after all._

“What, you don’t think I should publish a detailed report of the time we committed a felony and then let the murderer get away?”

“Well…” Sherlock’s head rocked to the side. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be popular.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’d be hit. Depends- do you suppose they’ll let me keep updating the blog from prison?”

Sherlock snorted. He was relieved John wasn’t angry with him. And in the woozy aftermath of the adrenaline rush, John started to giggle, until they were both helpless with laughter.

“Ah!” John winced as the cords cut into the flesh below his ribs. “We can’t- we can’t both laugh- the cords are too tight-"

“Just- breathe- _slowly-_ "

Their heads knocked against each other and they both erupted again.

“Okay!” John gasped. “Okay.”

Sherlock thought that if they both sucked their abdominals in, he could wriggle an arm free and undo the knot. But he wanted to give Burnet a sporting thirty minute head start.

“You were really going to take a bullet for me,” John said.

 _Of course. I love you,_ Sherlock thought.

John’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Sherlock knew he’d heard it.

“Besides,” Sherlock continued thickly, out loud this time, “you would have done the same for me, if the positions had been reversed.”

“Yeah. Absolutely.” John didn’t say “because I love you too.” He should have. Maybe he would’ve, if he could look Sherlock in the eye. But as it was, he couldn’t manage it.

He didn’t have to wonder any more. He knew Sherlock reciprocated. But he still couldn’t say it. Because Sherlock still wasn’t admitting it, still wasn’t acting on it, still holding John at a distance, and John couldn’t understand why.

“I’ll give you another case,” Sherlock said, as he thought that the conversation was moving into dangerous territory, and he would need to occupy his mind with something else for the next half hour. “You can post a report of this one.”

“We have another client?”

“No, this is from before we met.”

“Yeah?”

“Did I ever tell you about the Rat of Sumatra?”

*****

“You found this just lying on the pavement by the crime scene?” Lestrade looked up from the Swiss bank statement to fix them with a dubious stare.

“I suppose it slipped out of our killer’s bag on her way out,” Sherlock said.

“Lucky we haven’t had rain,” John improvised.

“Oh, yes, or it might have been unreadable.”

Lestrade sighed as he rubbed his temple. “Get out of my office before you say something to jeopardize the whole investigation.”

Sherlock smiled innocently.

*****

They were walking close together, their arms brushing against each other at times. The accidental contact seemed to sparkle in John’s mind; he supposed he was feeling it from two directions at once.

“You don’t seem bothered about being in range,” John said.

“No,” Sherlock said. Then, curiously, “Should I be?”

“Well… I could hear something you don’t want me to know.”

Sherlock hummed. He didn’t speak, but John followed his train of thought: _not much point when he’s already overheard what I’ve most endeavored to keep secret._

John’s felt a burning in his cheeks. He looked up, and Sherlock’s cheeks were tinged with pink. He was overcome by a terrible fear, a paralyzing, heart-thumping fear, worse than when Burnet had them at gunpoint.

_This is it,_ Sherlock was thinking, _for better or worse, I’ll get an answer._

“Oh,” John said, hating himself for taking so long to work it out. “I know… how you feel, but you don’t know how I feel.”

“No, Baskerville denied me that opportunity.”

“Can’t you deduce it?” John struggled to breathe normally, trying to ground himself in his own certainty rather than Sherlock’s rising panic.

Sherlock kept his eyes resolutely forward. “I’ve long understood my deductive reasoning to be at its weakest when I must include myself as a variable.”

“A scientist never includes himself in his own data set,” John said.

Sherlock smiled. “Exactly.”

Finally, it was starting to make sense. Sherlock didn’t actually know how John felt; couldn’t read his longing in every gesture, every bitten lip, every breathless laugh. He was scared. He was waiting, hoping for John to make the first move…

So he made it. He found Sherlock’s hand with his own, interlaced their fingers. “What can you deduce from this, then?”

Sherlock had a thought about John’s _strong hands_ that made John laugh and chased away the last of his insecurities, even as he felt Sherlock spinning into relief and joy and terror. “I’m- I was wrong. There are things I don’t want you to overhear.”

“I don’t mind,” John laughed. “But you can walk a few feet behind if you’d rather.”

_No, I never want to stop holding his hand._

*****

The walk home seemed to take an eternity. John couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to carry on walking hand in hand with Sherlock forever; or whether he wanted to be home alone together right this instant.

Both of their heads were buzzing with questions. Should they get takeaway? John had to admit he was starving, and Sherlock was too, for all he went on about never needing to eat. But picking up dinner was too normal, too _routine,_ and perhaps it would break the spell. Were they going to kiss once they got home? (Oh, yes. Definitely.) How slow were they supposed to take it? Hadn’t they been slow enough in getting here?

Sherlock could smell Speedy’s before they rounded the corner, a distinctive combination of tomato sauce, coffee, and shellfish. They awkwardly let go of each other when they got to the door, as John fumbled with the keys. He had a strange impulse to hold the door for Sherlock, but thought better of it. Then they were inside, and in an instant, they were kissing.

John didn’t know who had started it, how they had gotten into the embrace, but it didn’t matter. Sherlock was warm and solid, and it was strange to have to tip his head back to kiss him. John pushed him back into the wall of the hall, and Sherlock pushed back against him, returning John’s roughness.

It was exhilarating; and more than that, he could feel Sherlock reacting to his touch, knew exactly how much Sherlock wanted him and in what way-

“Upstairs. Now.”

*****

“We’ll have to pay my dear brother a visit tomorrow, before we head back to Dartmoor. He’ll be busy, so be prepared for a minor kidnapping.”

John glared into Sherlock’s collarbone, the closest he could get to Sherlock’s eyes without lifting his head. He’d never expected Sherlock to be one for pillow talk, but did they really have to discuss Mycroft in bed? “Tomorrow?” he grumbled.

“I’m sure the scientists at Baskerville are eagerly awaiting our confirmation that their little experiment was a success.”

John didn’t reply. It was selfish, but he didn’t feel any great urgency in getting the microchips removed. He liked the connection with Sherlock. And, _God,_ it had really contributed to some fantastic sex.

“You’re reluctant,” Sherlock said.

John propped himself up on his elbow so he could look Sherlock in the eye. “No…” He bit his lip. There was no going back from this now, he told himself. Even without access to Sherlock’s thoughts, there was no way they could go back to not knowing how they felt about each other. They’d have to practice the talking thing, was all. “No,” he repeated, more confidently.

“Good.”

John settled back down, and Sherlock began idly stroking John’s hair as he spoke.

“Mycroft won’t put up a fight, you know how he loathes to exert himself, but we’ll need to separate him from his security detail…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for supporting this little project! I've never written mystery or "case fic" before, and I've learned so much in writing this. I'm already seeing things I could have done better. I hope you enjoyed reading!


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